Narrative Poems

His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
...

You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
...

Today the Masons are auctioning
their discarded pomp: a trunk of turbans,
gemmed and ostrich-plumed, and operetta costumes
labeled inside the collar "Potentate"
...

Dear Dr. Pintu Mahakul,

Heartiest CongratulationsTo You!
...

The great man turns his back on the island.
Now he will not die in paradise
nor hear again
the lutes of paradise among the olive trees,
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S. Patrick. You who are bent, and bald, and blind,
With a heavy heart and a wandering mind,
Have known three centuries, poets sing,
Of dalliance with a demon thing.
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WEAPON, shapely, naked, wan!
Head from the mother's bowels drawn!
Wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one, and lip only one!
...

PALLAS, attending to the Muse's song,
Approv'd the just resentment of their wrong;
And thus reflects: While tamely I commend
Those who their injur'd deities defend,
...

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
...

Night is fallen
and the single star writing in the heavens
remembers...
...

Dear God,
Let our borrowers pay us back
We can take no more flack
We have to remain on track
...

In that soft season, when descending show'rs
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;
When op'ning buds salute the welcome day,
...

If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty,
Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
But then 'twould spoil much good philosophy.
...

Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
...

Thank you for representing life as a Gothic horror
with the nerve-wrecking shocks of demented men,
dad as Heathcliff, mom as Mr Rochester’s mad first
wife and you a strange mixture between Jane Eyre
...

'There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,
And most of us have found it now and then;
At least we think so, though but few have guess'd
...

Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
...

THE leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks
And the simplicities of cottage life
I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
...

Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense
To every man his modicum of sense,
And Conversation in its better part
...

Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
...

Algorithm Of ALIEN QUESTIONS

Are you in mode of impression?
Are you in mode of illusion?
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City Of Myths

Just Poetry (6)
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(for John Olson, who is not former)
... ... ... ... ...

Robert Hughes and Peter Schjeldahl were unsettling to the academically trained curatoriat. Even so they succeeded, because the true gray eminences wanted to hear an erstwhile poet's voice reporting back from aesthetic encounters in real time. In the latter's case, a little wise-assery didn't hurt. But there was a Dionysian glee in their re-purposing of narrative to trace beauty's will-o'-the-wisp across a canvas, then maybe following its tale into the context of gestation. Their evocations could be another kind of art. A trained art critic keeps recapitulating an edifice of theory that is more or less agreed-upon. A maverick critic throws himself into the abyss of lived aesthetics, then emerges to button-hole us about it. As for the maverick beyond critique, he remains a poet and mostly reports back when his head emerges between abysses, where they segue into each other. He keeps moving from world to artistic creation and back, where the mirror re-liquefies to quicksilver and yields multiple reflections when chased. And a touch of tomfoolery keeps everything picaresque.
...

Lighted window
Even the pillow
Looked a little brighter
Intoxicated by narrative creator
...

elephant and rabbit

the unrealistic magic is on and on.
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Friday afternoon, June 14, 2024 at 12: 35 p.m.; Friday, July 5, 2024 at 7: 12 p.m. and 7: 39 p.m. and 7: 41 p.m. and 7: 56 p.m.

'As I told you yesterday, the police are trying
to shape my narrative, make it theirs, master it
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World Pig Factory (Part 1)
Pigs are unaware that they will be born as pigs. Falling into the sow's womb is purely a matter of fate. If this life must have shadows of a previous life, we can make the following speculations:

If it was a human in its previous life, it likely committed sins—perhaps it was a robber or owed romantic debts. It faced retribution and was demoted to the animal realm because humans are considered higher beings than pigs, which seems indisputable.
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Saturday morning, now at 9: 32 a.m., and now 9: 46 a.m.

This poem of 24 lines blocked from publication three times this morning at 8: 06 a.m.,8: 49 a.m. and 9: 23 a.m., see computer code above that blocked the poem in title field, Thomas McKelvey being a former U.S. Fleet Marine, a police informer, who used my New Port Richey, Florida Street address this morning—I lived in NPRichey from 1991-1996 only—in his poem about "tall oaks", etc., and who has been communicating on Poem Hunter with Amelie Ison, who is also a Police and MI-6 informant for the British Intelligence Service: MI-6 being its name the last time I looked.
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new narrative

dream of mushroom
by a small boy from remote village has been made of universe of rural innocence, which is not toxicated by megacities' swing of perceived and conceived knowledge
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kite, till no string theory

the cessation of narrative acts and of knowledge received.
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